The Lift
by C.D.Wofford
Summary: On second thought, maybe it would have been a better option to take the stairs. When Sherlock goes missing from a lift in the new high-rise downtown, John has almost nothing to go on but a few garbled texts. Will Sherlock be able to resist the manic experiment of a presumed-dead scientist and keep his sanity long enough for John to find him?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hey guys, I'm back! Here's the introduction to my new Sherlock story. Hope you like it! I realize that Sherlock is a bit out of character in this fiction, but it's kind of hard to write this scenario without making him so. :P I'll do my best though, rest assured! The first chapter is a tribute to all of you author-ly people who find yourselves getting creepy plot ideas while you're riding an elevator alone. :-)**

**Disclaimer: Chi-Sung, Fred Manson, and Doctor Paxton are my original characters. No other character in this story belongs to me, and this fiction is for entertainment enjoyment only. No profit or monetary benefit is attached to it. **

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><p>The Lift<p>

_Thursday, 2:47 pm_

It stopped. The lift stopped. Not with the smooth motion of coming to a stop at a floor, but with a sort of dying jolt. The overhead lights flickered, and then went out. The yellow display lights behind the floor buttons survived a moment longer…and then the tiny room was plunged into perfect darkness. He was trapped.

A faint shushing noise, like a constant exhale met his ears. Sherlock took out his phone, using the light from the screen to investigate. A jet of white vapor spouted into the elevator through the air vent. His eyes widened as he realized what it was, and he uttered a soft _Oh_ of understanding. Quickly he moved to the corner of the lift farthest from the gas and filled his lungs with air not yet contaminated.

He needed to text John…

**S-**_Trapped in the lift. Gas of some sort coming in. _

It seemed like John took an eternity to reply.

**J-**_Where are you? Are you okay?_

**S-**_New High-rise office bldg downtown. There's gas. Some anesthetic compound. I'll pass out._

Sherlock's lungs felt as if they might burst if he held his breath any longer. He sat down on the floor so he wouldn't fall, and let it out as slowly as he could, postponing taking a breath of the unknown gas.

**J-**_I'm coming. _

**S-**_Don't. Danger. _

**J-**_What should I do?_

**S-**_Track phone. Call Mycroft. Lestrade. I won't be here when you get here._

**J-**_Why_

**S-**_I'm being kidnapped. _

**J-**_WHO IS KIDNAPPING YOU?_

**S-**_Manson. _

Sherlock was positively dizzy. He had to breathe. He held his coat sleeve over his nose and mouth and breathed through it. But he could still taste the bitterness in the back of his throat. He felt dreadfully light headed. His phone blipped. It took great effort to read it; his mind was fuzzy and his eyes weren't acting right.

**J-**_On the phone with Lestrade now. Are you okay?_

**S-**_Fineee.. Passsng outtt._

**J-**_Sherlock! Don't pass out! Stay awake, whatever you do!_

**S-**_Cnt hellp it;;;;; Ignor subsqent texts; trrap._

Sherlock honestly was trying hard to breathe as little as he possibly could. But the gas did something to his lungs that caused him to gasp for more air, despite his own struggles not to. He was lying flat on the floor now, one hand grasping his phone, thinking only about breathing. His mind was foggy; he knew it was a matter of seconds now.

Hide the phone. If he didn't hide it, when they came to take him out of the lift they'd get it. They'd be smart enough to be rid of it, and then tracking would do no good. He managed to slip it into his sock and pull the leg of his trousers down over it. He had to exert great effort to do this, and now he let himself fall onto his back, wheezing, and arms spread wide. His eyes rolled back. Sherlock Holmes was unconscious.

Several minutes later, the lights flickered back on. The button for the lowest floor destination lit by itself. The basement.

The lift began to move.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Ooooh, creepy start, right? And for all my British readers; it didn't occur to me until after I'd written it that some of you guys actually use the word "lift" instead of "elevator". :P So sorry about that. I did try to correct it, but if there's an occasional stray "elevator" in there, that's why. XD Stay tuned! Updating every Monday and Friday, as per usual. <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I am so sorry this was updated so late in the day, guys! I normally try to do it first thing in the morning, but our internet had been turned off and we had to get that sorted. *embarrassed blush* Yes, that actually happened. ANYWAY, at least it's still on Friday, right? Here's the next update! And apologies for the lack of a cover-photo; it's my goal for all of my stories to have one, I just haven't found a suitable one yet. :P Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own anybody but Doctor Manson**

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><p>Sherlock felt as if he was buried alive. Or perhaps like he was very deep under black water. The darkness surged about him. The oblivion pressed down on him, dragged at him, even as his mind dimly fought to break free.<p>

He had a vague impression that something was wrong. Blurry shapes stood over him. Someone touched him, lifted him…he heard voices, but they were somehow disconnected, without meaning. The blackness dragged him under once more.

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><p>Sherlock woke up. His mind was clear, for the most part, though a bit slower than normal. He could still detect the lingering effects of the drugs. Kidnapped, he remembered. He had been kidnapped.<p>

He kept his eyes closed, his breathing deep and heavy. He was lying on something cold, hard, and smooth. He was no longer wearing his coat; in fact, from the chill of the air he guessed he wasn't wearing his suit jacket either. He shivered, and his wrists met unyielding metal cuffs. When he breathed he felt constriction on his chest…he was strapped down. Well, _that_ was a bit disquieting.

Sherlock remembered the phone. He could still feel it against his leg; that, at least, was a comfort. It was quiet…too quiet to be natural. Somebody else must be nearby.

"Welcome back to the Land of the Living, Mr. Holmes," a deep, friendly voice said, "I know you're awake."

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in a room; one that rather resembled an x-ray room. In the dim light he could see a white-haired fellow in a lab coat, smiling soothingly at him.

"You tried to come 'round a bit too soon, actually; they had to give you a second helping just to keep you under. But now you're here, and I've been waiting rather impatiently to meet you."

Sherlock said nothing. His eyes flicked over the lab-coated man, taking in details and absorbing information. He'd seen that man's picture many times over the past three months. Frederick Manson had simply vanished from the face of the Earth, leaving a distraught wife and three children. And now here he was, smiling down on a helpless Sherlock.

_Why?_

"What's going through you mind right now? I can see it working," Dr. Manson said. He stepped closer, the better to see Sherlock's face.

"It's far beyond the capacity of normal people to fathom the processes that take place in my brain, whether it is explained to them or not, Doctor Manson. So perhaps we can turn our attention to a less presuming and idiotic line of questioning," Sherlock's stream of insult was delivered with his usual rapid-fire, cool sharpness. That, at least, wasn't fuzzy. "What am I doing here, why am I restrained?"

Manson ignored the insults directed at him with the ease and practice on a similar level with Mycroft's. Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes.

"They're just a precaution, customary when one has been sedated. For the patient's own safety, you understand."

"Don't know if you've noticed, but I'm awake now. Feel free to take them off anytime." It was more of a demand, actually. Sherlock's tone indicated that with extreme clarity.

Dr. Manson gave a gurgling little chuckle, as if he was really genuinely amused.

"I don't think we'll take them off just yet, Mr. Holmes. I think we'll leave them on just a bit longer."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Creepy? What do ya'll think? Also, does anybody have any theories of what's going on? ;)<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Here's the requested longer chapter, guys. ;) Hope you enjoy! A little bit of John's point of view in this one. Just as a heads up, I'm headed to California on Saturday, so for two weeks of my vacation I won't be able to post my usual Monday and Friday updates. So...if you'd like, I could post all four of the updates we'll be missing _before _I go, and you can read them while I'm gone...OR, you could just wait and the story will last longer. Up to you; it's already written so I can do it either way. **

**Disclaimer: I actually don't legally own any of these main characters, shocking as that might seem. O.O**

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><p>Sherlock sighed discontentedly.<p>

"Why am I here?"

"You should know," the doctor said, with a reproving shake of his head.

"I don't," Sherlock snapped. "Your thugs got me high. What do you expect?"

"You're mind _does _still seem affected by the drugs. Very well then; I'll help you. What do you know about me, Mr. Holmes?"

"You disappeared three months ago. A suicide note was found, and good deal of blood, as well. The note was in your writing, but the blood was not yours, and no body was found. You are fairly well-off, which is why your wife could afford to offer such an exorbitant reward for your safe return, which in turn is why half of England is now looking for you."

Sherlock rattled off the facts without taking a breath, his tone loudly speaking of his annoyance. Dr. Manson nodded patiently.

"What do you know about my professional life?"

"You're a doctor. A neurosurgeon, more specifically."

"And?"

"And a scientist."

"Can you think of no reason why a neurosurgeon and scientist would have an interest in possibly the greatest mind in the world?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"My mind? My…you kidnapped me for my mind?"

"Well, among other things, yes. I am developing a new project, you see; one that could change history. And you, Sherlock Holmes, have the honor of helping me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to appear uninterested.

"How exciting."

"Don't worry, Sherlock. You won't be bored. No, I don't think you will be."

* * *

><p>"What do you mean, you can't track it?"<p>

John was incredulous. His look at Lestrade, striding quickly beside him, demanded explanation.

"Look, it's different than the Jennifer Wilson case. We had her account information. Sherlock's given us nothing to go on." Lestrade sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

John was already shaking his head.

"That's not right, Greg. Why would he tell us to do something he knew we couldn't?"

"Well, you saw his texts. The stuff he was breathing was clearly having some effects on him."

John furrowed his brow. He didn't think Sherlock would have made a mistake like that.

"He didn't ever give _you _his password or anything, did he? For safe-keeping, or something?" Lestrade suggested. John shook his head. "Well then, have you called his brother?"

"He didn't pick up the phone."

Lestrade reached inside his office door and grabbed his coat, shrugging it on as they hurried past.

"I've already got two squad cars and an ambulance on the way there. Maybe we can get to him before someone else does."

"Call me as soon as you get there," John said. Lestrade stopped, perplexed.

"What, you're not coming with?"

"I'm going to the Diogenes Club to speak with Mycroft. Sherlock avoids him like the plague; if he said to get his help it must be important."

"Right."

"Right."

John nodded once and hurried out of the building to hail a cab, leaving Lestrade shouting a few last orders before he, too, left.

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><p>John sprang up the steps two by two. In the hall upstairs, two suited men moved to block the heavy mahogany doors that bore the name "Mycroft Holmes, Esq." on bronze plating. John didn't slow his pace.<p>

"John Watson, here to see Mycroft Holmes."

The men stepped aside.

Mycroft looked up from his papers and piping cup of Earl Grey as John entered.

"Why haven't you answered your bloody phone?" John demanded. Mycroft set his tea down and raised his eyebrows in his own especially infuriating way.

"Good afternoon to you, too, John."

"Why didn't you?"

"If you must know, Anthea needed my personal phone to conclude a certain government transaction, and I requested her not to take calls from numbers she did not recognize. For security reasons, of course."

"Sherlock's in trouble, Mycroft."

"Well, obviously. When is he ever not? And still he comes running to big brother whenever he gets himself into a scrape; quite childish, doctor, don't you agree?"

John ignored him.

"We need you to-" John's phone rang. He motioned for Mycroft to wait and pulled his mobile out of his coat pocket with his other hand.

"Greg, yes, what is it?"

"We checked every elevator in the place. No sign of him. We did find traces of a sedative aerosol drug in the air in one of them, but no Sherlock. We're doing a thorough search of the building, but considering his texts I think it unlikely we'll come up with anything."

"Thanks, Greg. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Right; bye."

"Bye." John hung up and turned back to Mycroft. "Okay, so he really is gone. He texted me as he was being kidnapped; told us to track his phone and get in touch with you. Here, see?" John quickly opened the text screen on his phone and slapped it into Mycroft's hand. Mycroft's eyes darted over it and he sighed.

"What's the problem? Can't you do it? Even if you don't have his information I'm sure you of all people can get it, can't you?" John was hopeful.

"I don't have it. It's in my phone."

"Tell Anthea to text it to you, or something?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"John, she's been told to ignore all calls she doesn't recognize. Think about that."

"She has your phone…so…you'd have to call from somewhere else but she might not recognize the number. But, couldn't you call her from here? She must know the Diogenes number?"

"I never use a landline, John, especially when contacting Anthea. Too easily tapped."

"So there's no way we can get the information. Other than go find her and ask her for it. That's basically what you're telling me." John was incredulous. Mycroft considered a moment.

"There are other people. Other numbers she'd know. But none I would trust with the knowledge of Sherlock's abduction. So yes. I think your suggestion our best option at the moment."

John's jaw was twitching with anger, but he was sensible enough to put bickering off until later. _Later, when Sherlock is here, and safe, and can bicker for me. He'd probably do a far cleverer job of dressing down Mycroft than I ever could, anyway._

"Alright. Where is she?"

"Honduras."

"_What?!_"

"Pack a bag, John; you're leaving in twenty minutes."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Here's a fun-fact for you. Honduras is actually, according to statistics, the murder capital of the world. Exciting, yeah? Also, apologies for Sherlock seeming at all out of character in this one. He <em>is <em>drugged though, so I think we can give him a break. PLEASE leave a comment! And be sure to let me know when you'd like me to post those updates. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hi guys! Well, this is it. The last update for two weeks. Tomorrow, early in the morning, I'm hopping on a plane and "California dreamin' is becomin' a reality!" ;) I will be gone for four of my normal update days, two Mondays and two Fridays. So I put all the material I would have posted those days into this one update for you guys, since you can't bear to wait until my return. XD BUT, remember, this is all you get until then. Don't read it all at once, you've gotta make it last! Savor it. Naw, just kidding, you guys do what you want. I'll miss you while I'm gone, but I promise I'll start right back up where I left off when I get home. ;) Happy Friday!**

**Disclaimer: Manson and Chi-Sung belong to me. Everyone else is only borrowed. :P**

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><p>"Have we got the equipment ready?"<p>

Fred Manson addressed his question to someone standing outside of Sherlock's view.

"I'll see," came the reply. A woman's voice. Young. Sherlock could tell from the refinement and slight hint of vibrato in her voice that she sang for a hobby. There was a certain Eastern tang to her tone and pronunciation that suggested English was not her first language; she was probably Asian, then. He listened to her footsteps cross the floor. The sound of a door opening, muffled voices outside the room, and then a sound of one…no, three carts or trolleys being pushed into the room. The click of the woman's high-heels was heard again, accompanied by the heavier footsteps of…how many more people were coming in here, anyway? What was it, six? Six people.

Sherlock resisted the urge to lift his head for a look. Heavens forbid they should take it as him being nervous, or even interested. He didn't have to wait long, though; they soon descended on him.

The woman, (Sherlock saw now that she was a Japanese girl, -John would probably say a very pretty one- and deduced that she was Manson's personal assistant) gently rolled up Sherlock's sleeves to above the elbow, avoiding his scrutinizing gaze as she did so. A metal trolley was pushed up beside the table where he lay by a young man, and an older one began preparing needles on it and handing them to the young lady. Dr. Manson had stepped out of Sherlock's view to his left. He turned his head to see.

Dr. Manson was taking off his own white lab-coat, rolling up his own sleeves, and lying on a table similar to the one Sherlock was on. Sherlock noticed, however, that the restraints were left off him. He realized Sherlock was looking at him and grinned broadly.

"Curious yet, Mr. Holmes?"

"A bit," Sherlock admitted. He was staring at the various contents of the trolley they were now parking next to Fred Manson. The Doctor was only too eager to explain, elaborating on each step as it was performed.

"It's a complex concept in detail, but basically what we're attempting to perform is an intelligence transfer," he said. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I've been working on the idea for years, despite the derision of my colleagues. But I was able to achieve consistent successes in lab animals and test subjects, so that now I am quite sure of the success of this attempt, as well."

"I am entirely capable of comprehending science, _Fred. _I've written several definitive papers myself, so please don't condescend. It increases your stupidity rating," Sherlock said, eyes back on the woman as she inserted an IV port into each arm. He noted the efficiency and ease with which she did this; these were obviously not mad scientists trying some insane experiment; they were practiced medical experts. She began to attach heart-rate and body temperature monitors to his finger on one hand and his neck on the right side.

"First we are both going to receive a dose of a powerful hallucinogenic. The sensors placed on our foreheads are connected to a central computer, and my assistant Chi-Sung can, to some extent, guide our states of mind through it."

As he spoke Chi-Sung gently smoothed Sherlock's curls back and stuck an adhesive sophisticated white strip onto his brow, letting his hair fall back down over it. The cord from it ran down onto the floor, connecting with first Manson's cord and then a larger one that ran behind an observation window at the end of the room.

"She will direct our hallucinations inward, into our own minds. Or rather, into your mind. For you see, Sherlock, my goal is to penetrate your mind, your consciousness, your intelligence. Our minds will merge; not our brains, but our _minds. _Once my mind has gotten into yours, so to speak, Chi-Sung has simply to direct your mind's extraordinary capabilities into mine as I withdraw! Isn't it brilliant!"

Manson didn't sound gloating or wicked; it actually sounded as if he was actually bursting with excitement and expected Sherlock to be so, too.

"What about my memories and experiences? What will happen when your mind is flooded with my past? Surely it won't be able to hold two lifetimes of information," Sherlock inquired. Chi-Sung was now checking all the needles over again, waiting for the moment when she should inject them.

"Excellent question. My mind couldn't cope with it, at least not all at once. Thankfully most, if not all, of your memories will be destroyed in the process."

"What will I be left with, then? When it's over, I mean?" He really was curious.

"Nothing, unfortunately. You will, in the most literal sense of the expression, loose your mind. All your memories destroyed, all your potential and intelligence now mine, there will be nothing left of you but disconnected shreds of thought, or perhaps nothing at all."

"Lovely," Sherlock said drily. Dr. Manson laughed.

"Don't worry. It's not completely intolerable in terms of distress levels, I'm told. But I should warn you; resisting during the transfer can be very unpleasant and drawn out. If you just give up in the beginning things go much smoother generally."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock sniffed.

"Begin," Manson commanded. Three assistants took their places around Manson's table and three around Sherlock, watching attentively. Chi-Sung hooked up the IVs to the drug, and then did the same for Manson before retreating behind the observation wall. A white glow lit her face. She must be looking at the computer monitor.

"Here we go, Mr. Holmes. To brilliance and to science!" Manson shouted, gleefully.

Sherlock's vision grew blurry; he could feel the hallucinogen pulsing into him. The sensor on his forehead warmed pleasantly; his whole body felt warm. It was starting.

"Not on your life," he said, coolly.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock stood in the center of the great, airy space. He knew this place. He'd been here countless times before, but never had it seemed so present, so real. Curiously, he looked around him, noting with interest the detail which his subconscious had created for every doorway, staircase, and window in the enormous atrium. It truly was magnificent. It was a palace. His palace, the one which had taken years to build and to which he was still ever adding onto with new information.<em>

_A muffled voice spoke from behind him, causing Sherlock to jump and whirl about, trying to pinpoint the source._

"_Knock, knock, Sherlock," Manson intoned. Sherlock's eyes rested on the place the voice came from, and he felt a wave of loathing wash over him._

_Manson's words issued from behind a heavy, neglected door, covered in rusty padlocks, hidden away in a dark, dusty corner of the atrium beneath a staircase. A door purposefully placed where it could easily be overlooked, and that is exactly what Sherlock had chosen to do. But he couldn't now._

_Cautiously, he stepped toward the door. The last time he'd been near it, he had almost been lost out of it forever. The last time he'd been here, was when he'd…he stepped on something in the twilight beneath the stairs and looked down. A syringe. Horrible confused memories surged up…his jaw hardened and he kicked it away into some darker crevice before continuing toward the door._

"_Don't put me off, Sherlock," Manson advised, from the other side, "It can only be unpleasant. And I will still force my way in in the end, you know."_

"_If it's just a matter of wills, I rather think mine will be stronger than yours," Sherlock said. Manson tittered in amusement._

"_I have all the odds on my side, Sherlock. My will, my hallucinogenic compound, and my refined electrical impulse technology, controlled by my assistant. Do you really think you, alone, can stand for very long?"_

"_Let him in," a cool, female mechanized voice echoed through the palace, seeming to send a slight vibration through everything and giving Sherlock a strange buzzing feeling. He shook his head as if to loose the unsettling effects. Obviously, that was Chi-Sung with the electrical impulses._

_His eyes narrowed on the handle of the door. It was slowly turning. Manson was trying to take advantage of his momentary distraction. He sprang forward and held it still, throwing his weight against the door to brace it against the blows Manson was now raining against it._

"_Not quite good enough, Dr. Manson," Sherlock said, smirking a little._

"_Let him in, now," the cool, unemotional female voice said again. It was stronger, louder this time. Sherlock felt confused and dizzy for a moment, and in that second the door received such a shuddering blow that one of the padlocks burst._

"_No!" Sherlock said. It wasn't enough. He couldn't do it._

"_Just let me in, my boy," Manson called, cheerfully. "It can all be over in a few minutes."_

_But Sherlock wasn't ready to give up. He let go of the door, turned, and ran back out into the atrium. He needed something, anything, to block the door with. He sprang up the stairs and into the first door he came to._

_It was full of filing cabinets, each drawer stuffed with files of past cases Sherlock had hidden away up here for future reference. Without thinking he ripped out three drawers…they were light. Too light. They wouldn't do any good against the door and Manson. Surely they couldn't all be this light? He ripped out every drawer in the room, only to throw them on the floor, one after the other. They were all so light it almost felt like he wasn't holding anything._

_He could hear the beating of the door downstairs echoing through the palace like a death-knell… "Let him in," Chi-Sung said again. Sherlock spun in a circle, hands to his head._

"_Think. Think! Come-on-come-on-come-on…" The sound of another blow, accompanied by a sickening pop of another lock breaking off, met his ears. He didn't have time. He ran out of the room and flew by the doors, muttering under his breath._

"_Okay, so case files don't work. Maybe because there's not substance enough to them? Let's try a different kind of memory."_

"_Let him in."_

_Sherlock felt a brief unpleasantness bordering on pain seize him for a moment, causing him to falter in his run._

"_SHUT UP!" he yelled._

_Almost all of the rooms held case files, facts, or other information. Finally he came to the one he was looking for and skidded to a stop. The plate on the door said Lestrade. He wrenched open the door and entered the first doorway along the short corridor._

_There were files in here, too, but there were other things. Among them was an orange blanket folded in the corner. Sherlock reached out to touch it. A memory flashed before his mind._

"_It's for shock."_

"_I'm not IN shock!"_

"_I know, but some of the fellas want to get photographs."_

_Sherlock picked it up. It was heavy, far heavier than it should be. It wasn't just a blanket, he realized; it was just a symbol of his memory, and carried all of it's weight. He grinned, and hurried back down to the door._

_Only a few locks remained, the rest lay scattered around the floor, broken. He piled the blanket against the door, forcing it partway into the crack underneath it with his foot as a brace._

"_Sherlock," Manson said in a warning tone._

"_Shut up," Sherlock said, his spirits definitely risen. He dashed back to retrieve some more things. In a short time he had emptied most of the meaningful memories concerning Greg out of their room and had them piled against the door. The ear-hat sat lopsidedly on top of the pile._

_He was just observing his work with some satisfaction, taking a moment to catch his breath before resuming his work, when the female voice blared through the palace, shaking it and throwing Sherlock to the ground._

"_LET HIM IN." The tone had not changed, but the volume was greatly increased. And the pain that accompanied it took Sherlock's breath away. He gasped and struggled up, staggering a little._

"_Told you," Manson said, through the door. It shuddered again as something struck it._

"_Isn't that dangerous?" Sherlock asked, wheezing a little, though the pain had passed._

"_Not in the slightest," Manson said, "We know what levels of stimulation are effective without being destructive to the mind."_

_The last lock burst. The only thing stopping the door being forced open now were the memories heaped against it. Sherlock whirled and ran back to find more. Now for Mycroft's room._

* * *

><p>John sent a few last-minute texts before turning the phone off for the flight.<p>

_J-Sorry Greg; unexpected circumstance. Going to Honduras to get Sherlock's tracking info. Can't explain. Call you when I get there._

_J-Okay, Mycroft, I'm boarding. Where do I find her when I get there?_

The phone blipped.

_G-Right. Good luck. And hurry up. I'm thinking if someone had the nerve to kidnap Sherlock they won't be treating him too nicely._

John waited a moment for Mycroft's text, but the phone rang instead.

"John. She's staying in Parque La Leona, in the capital city of Tegucigalpa where you'll be landing. Her rooms overlook the park. She'll recognize you. Just show her the clearance card I gave you. Good luck and keep me posted." Mycroft hung up.

John shook his head, remembering Sherlock's statement that Mycroft always preferred to talk rather than text. He turned the phone off, shoved it in his pocket, and took the steps onto the elder Holmes' private jet two at a time. He should be in Honduras in a little over 11 hours. He could only hope Sherlock would be alright during that time.

* * *

><p>John stepped off the plane into the Honduran sunset and the muggy air. He immediately shrugged off his woolen sweater, as the moist heat had him sweating already. Taking into account the 11 hour flight and the 7 hour time difference, it was about 7:30 in the evening.<p>

The airport was bustling with tourists, and John was hindered in getting out of the airport as quickly as he'd like. Finally, after going through security and hailing a taxi outside, he was headed to Parque La Leona.

On the ride he pulled out his phone and turned it back on. He hesitated a moment, and then checked his texts, half hoping there'd be another one from Sherlock. No. He selected "send message" and began to type, but stopped himself. Would Sherlock want him to text? Probably not. If Sherlock wanted him to track the phone, that meant he still had it. And if he still had it, that meant the kidnappers probably didn't know he did. John couldn't risk the text-tone alerting the kidnappers to the phone's presence. He sighed, and called Lestrade instead. He picked up after the first ring.

"Greg Lestrade, DI."

"Hey Greg."

"Hey. Have you got Sherlock's information yet?"

"No. On my way. It's in Mycroft's phone, which he apparently lent to Anthea while she traveled half-way round the world. I just landed in Tegucigalpa. Anything happening on your end?"

"Not yet. We're still working, though. We've questioned every person in that high-rise." Greg sounded exhausted. "The office Sherlock asked to visit when he came to the building was rented out for a single day by someone called Jerry Temsk. Probably a fake name. After Sherlock disappeared, so did the office. Temsk, his secretary, the desks, everything."

"What was Sherlock _doing _there?" John asked. "Had you given him a new case he didn't tell me about?"

"No. He was still working on the Frederick Manson disappearance. For all we know Manson _is_ Temsk. Sherlock said it was Manson that was kidnapping him, right?"

"Yeah. Sherlock asked to go to his office?"

"That's what the security officer said. Sherlock had to leave his pistol with him when he entered the building and asked for directions to Temsk's office."

"Okay Greg. Thanks. I'll call you as soon as I have the passwords."

"Okay."

John hung up. He stared out the window at the exotic city going by, but didn't see it. Why would Sherlock have gone to meet Manson and not taken John with him? Probably to protect him. As if John couldn't take care of himself. Oh, who was he kidding? This was Sherlock. He probably just figured John would be a drag. Why didn't he at least say where he was going?

John thought back to…was it just that morning? Yesterday morning. He was working on his blog, watching telly, and reading the paper alternately. Sherlock was feverishly pecking away at his own computer most of the morning. Suddenly, around twelve, Sherlock jumped up, slapped the laptop closed and grabbed his coat.

"Where you going?" John looked up, ready to accompany him if required.

"Just running out for a bit. Shouldn't be long. No need to come."

John raised his eyebrows.

"O-okay. I won't come if you don't want me to." He noticed Sherlock slipping a pistol into his pocket. "Are you…are you sure you don't think-"

"Yes. Relax, John. I always carry one." Sherlock's back was to John as he took down his scarf from the back of the door, but he'd apparently guessed what John was thinking.

"Right then. We could use the shopping, if you'd bother."

Sherlock gave a little half-laugh, but when he turned back around, his smile was gone. In it's place was a tense, eager look. His voice was serious.

"John. Don't ignore any texts while I'm out."

"Why?"

"I might need to know what kind of orange juice you want." And Sherlock had swept out of the flat.

Now he was gone. No one knew where. Or why they had taken him. Or even what the kidnappers might be doing to him at that very moment. John kicked himself. He should have caught on that something was up. He didn't have much time to brood though, because the taxi had just pulled to a stop outside of a beautiful posh neighborhood with old Spanish-style houses lining the street.

"_Tienes dinero?_" the driver asked.

"Um. Yeah. Hang on," John dug into his pocket for his wallet. "How much? Uh…_Cuanto?_"

"_Sies dolares."_

"I only have…_Yo solo tengo libras britanicas._"

"_Cuatro libras britanicas._"

John shelled out four pounds.

"You talk good, for a British," The driver said, grinning to show gold teeth, before driving off. John rolled his eyes and turned to face the street, leading uphill. _Nice. _The park was supposed to cover the crown of the hill; he had a bit of a ways to go. He trotted up the street, keeping a lookout for any hotels or apartment buildings that might overlook the park.

"Come on…come on, Anthea. Go ahead and materialize out of nowhere, would you?" he muttered.

"Hello, John. What did you want me to materialize for?"

Anthea stood behind him in the doorway of a building, holding Mycroft's phone.

* * *

><p>Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He was exhausted, shaking with fatigue and panting, as if he'd run a long way. He was still strapped to the table, but the IVs connecting him to the drug had been removed and the apparatus on his forehead was apparently no longer on. He was <em>so cold. <em>In the chilly climate of the room the sweat that dampened his shirt only made it worse. His head felt hot and sore though, like it did when he had a fever, and his stomach turned uncomfortably.

"What's wrong? Why did we stop?" Manson was demanding, sitting up. Chi-Sung appeared from behind the wall.

"Mr. Holmes was overheating. We couldn't proceed without a break or we would risk brain damage."

"I…ah…" Sherlock swallowed, "am going to be sick."

"It's not unlikely, given the exertion you've put forth combined with the side effects of the hallucinogen. The electrical impulses might have something to do with it as well," Manson observed, cheerfully. He rose from the table and stepped over to look down at Sherlock, observing Sherlock's chest as it rose and fell heavily with each breath. He looked far better than Sherlock felt.

"Ah, you see, that's because you are the resisting one. I am only attempting to enter with all the help of my apparatus. You have a much harder job; to withstand," Manson said, guessing Sherock's thoughts. Chi-Sung made notes on a clipboard of Sherlock's physical condition.

Ugh. Sherlock closed his eyes again. He felt terrible. He concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths to fight the nausea. A second later his eyes flicked open.

"Nope," he said, in a strangled voice, and began to heave, desperately gulping air in an attempt to keep it down as long as he could.

"Take him out," Manson told a gangly young man standing near. The other lab assistants were already unfastening the restraints rather frantically. "And bring him back here as soon as possible. We must get on with the work."

The young man nodded, distaste evident on his features, slipping an arm around Sherlock –his knees had buckled almost as soon as he'd tried to stand—and dragged him hastily out of the room.

Sherlock didn't waste his opportunity. He was recording, observing. Outside the room he'd woken in was a hallway. An empty hallway with florescent lighting and white paint. A hideous pattern of linoleum tiles on the floor; Sherlock briefly wondered what on earth the designer was thinking when they chose those colors. Could be a laboratory building; it looked more like a hospital or something.

He didn't have long to think about it though. The young man thrust him into the first door they came to and slammed the door behind him. It was a restroom. Sherlock gratefully fell onto his knees and was violently sick.

_Oh, __please,_ _John, _he thought, leaning back a few minutes later and resting his head against the cool tiles of the wall. _The one time you manage to make me eat a proper meal, I get sick. Bravo._

He glanced at the door. It was still closed, but Sherlock made sure it was locked from the inside before he sat back down on the floor and attempted to catch his breath and rest a minute. He was so exhausted, and his head hurt. He got his phone out, and looked at it a moment. It would make a clicking sound when he tried to unlock it…and the guard outside might hear. Sherlock shakily stood up and looked around.

On the sink was a container of liquid hand soap. He unscrewed the lid and poured it down the drain. Then he filled it up with water from the sink, making it silent by running the water down the side instead of letting it splash strait down.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Feeling better yet, Mr. Holmes?"

In answer, Sherlock made a terrible gagging noise and dumped the water noisily into the toilet, grinning a little at the realistic sound he'd been able to create.

"Uh…okay then," the young man's voice said. Sherlock noted with satisfaction that he sounded more than a little grossed-out. "We'll give it a bit longer."

Sherlock continued to make one horrible noise after another, accentuated appropriately with heavy breathing and an occasional miserable groan that was half real, as he filled the soap container again in the sink with one hand and unlocked his phone with the other. He was surprised at the time that displayed on the phone's clock. He'd been kidnapped for over twelve hours. They must not have tracked his phone, or they would most likely have arrived by now. Mycroft. What was he doing?

He couldn't text anyone. It would be unwise to do so. If they texted back at the wrong moment the phone would be discovered. But he had a different idea. Mycroft had started a site for their own little circle. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John, everybody was on there. He pulled up CSI Baker Street, and went to Mycroft's page.

_Mycroft. Track my phone. Just do it._

He left a few other comments on other pages declaring his kidnapping, and then turned off the phone. He didn't include the fact that he was now acting as a subject in a science experiment attempting to drive him out of his mind. No need to pressure them; inferior minds often worked less efficiently under pressure. John would get to him in time, anyway. He could always rely on John.

Sherlock slid the phone back in its hiding place and began to cycle down with the vomiting noises. He couldn't stay in here too long and wear his ploy out. The guard would suspect, would force the door, (which would be easy enough simply with a good jolt) and the game would be up.

Reluctantly, he reached up to unlock the door.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Ta-da! That was a long one, huh? And yeah, I know it was kind of wacky. The whole intelligence transfer premise of this story is a little sci-fi or out-there seeming, but seriously, I wrote it when I was spending much of my time in a doctor's office or hospital. I was bored, and surrounded by medical stuff and medical people and medical procedures, so ha. That explains why the villain is a deranged neurosurgeon. XD All that to say, I realize something like this would probably never happen in an episode, but I wrote it just for fun and it's to be read for the same reason. Fun. :D As always, LEMME KNOW WHATCHA THINK! What you liked, or what you didn't like, I'm open! And I love you hear from you guys. Bye!<strong>

**P.S. Oh, I got a cover photo for the story! What do you think? :-D**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Yes! I'm back! And I am so, so, so, so sorry I was gone for more than two weeks. My employers decided they wanted to kidnap me for another week, completely unexpectedly and out of the blue. So I was held hostage in southern Cali for seven more days, missing two more updates in the meantime. I did, however, get a nice bit of swimming in. And Disneyland is not half bad! However, I am back now, and terribly regretful for missing two updates. So how about three today? The two we missed, plus our regular Monday one, just to get us back on schedule? Here's the first, and as always, enjoy!**

* * *

><p><em>Running. Pain. Running. Pain. Running. And more pain. <em>

_Sherlock fell to his hands and knees for a moment, struggling to catch his breath back. The prompts were coming at regular intervals now, with only two or three minutes in between. _

_"Let him in."_

_"No."_

_"Let him in."_

_"Of course not."_

_"Let him in."_

_"Never."_

_"Let him in."_

_"Oh, shut up and lay off, won't you?"_

_Eventually Sherlock stopped replying; it only wasted breath, concentration, and time. And he needed all of those. But still the shocks followed his every refusal. And they seemed to be getting stronger every time he didn't comply. Now he forced himself to his feet. He was almost there. He was almost to John's part of the palace. _

_Mycroft's room had been dishearteningly bare. Almost nothing in there he could use against the door. What he could use had been mostly from childhood, memories he'd forgotten he had. He never looked in there anymore. _

_Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson…all the heavy memories he could find on any of them were already heaped against the door. Sherlock flew into the first room devoted to John. He had several…he grinned with relief. The room was packed. He snatched up the thing closest to hand; a pair of handcuffs. _

_"Joining me?"_

_"Yeah. Apparently chinning the chief superintendent is not entirely legal."_

_"Take my hand!"_

_"Sherlock, we're going to need to coordinate."_

_John's were the heaviest yet. Sherlock had suspected they'd be. That was why he'd saved them for last. Well. Part of the reason. He was racing down the stairs to the Door, when another impulse shook the palace. _

_"LET HIM IN."_

_Dust fell as the foundations shook, Sherlock was knocked off balance. He felt the memory slip out of his hand…_

_No. Nopenopenopenopenope. This isn't happening. Sherlock stared in horror at the shattered remains of…what was it? A memory…he knew that. It had been a good one, too. But he couldn't think what it had been. _

_"Most, if not all, of your memories will be destroyed in the process." Sherlock remembered those words too well. And with a rising sense of panic, he realized the even Sherlock Holmes was not invincible. He was weakened already, distracted and confused by exhaustion and the continual racket blaring through his head. The pain of shock after shock, time after time, was also wearing on him, though he'd sworn it wouldn't. The awful thought struck him that maybe he wasn't strong enough._

_"LET HIM IN, LET HIM IN, LET HIM IN!" _

_Sherlock was startled back into action, gritting his teeth as he turned his back on the shards of memory and returned to get another. His one thought now was, "John Watson, you'd better get here soon."_

* * *

><p>Sherlock's eyes flew open. He uttered a terrific, shuddering gasp, as if he was just surfacing from being submerged forever. His head was a world different than the last time they woke him. Before it had just been a dull, throbbing ache; now it felt as if acid had been poured into his brain, and even the dim lights knifed cruelly in, making things worse. He squeezed his eyes closed. His stomach churned.<p>

But he kept noticing. He _had _to keep noticing. When he couldn't see, he listened. Several machines or monitors bleeped annoyingly. Probably some kind of alarm. Someone moved to stand beside him, and cool, slender fingers adjusted the monitors on his hand and neck. Chi-Sung. The incessant beeping stopped.

"That was a bit close. He stopped breathing for a moment before we woke him." She was apparently addressing Dr. Manson.

"We're putting tremendous strain on his system. The mind can only handle so much, and when it is destroyed often the body goes, too. I think we have time though; one more go, and we'll get what we want. Better check on him. Can't have anything go wrong before the job's done."

Sherlock again wondered briefly how Manson managed to make such a speech without sounding malicious or cold. He spoke with the ease and neutrality Sherlock might have when talking about a fruit fly in an experiment. Just as Sherlock had no ill feelings for the fruit fly, Manson held no malice toward Sherlock. He was just a subject, and item of interest from which Manson could get something. And that alone made Fred Manson one of the most chilling opponents Sherlock had faced.

The click of heels again sounded on the floor, coming to a stop on the other side of Sherlock. She leaned over him, obscuring the dim spots of light that tormented him through closed lids. It was a blessed relief for a moment, until she gently but firmly forced open one eye and shone a penlight into it.

Oh, fireworks. Fireworks of white hot agony. Sherlock reacted rather violently, or would have, if he wasn't secured. The penlight switched off and Chi-Sung removed her hand. Over his own gasping Sherlock could hear the scratch of a pen as she made a note on the clipboard.

"No color visible. The eyes have dilated to their extremity. The patient has a strong sensitivity and aversion to light, but the pupils did not respond," she reported. Oh. That was bad.

"How do you feel, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, softly, leaning over him again.

"Fabulous. Marvelous. Wonderful. Don't I just look it?"

Well, that's what he meant to say. All that came out was a sickening moan through clenched teeth. Stupid transport.

"Go ahead and take him out," Manson was saying, "he'll probably be feeling poorly again in a few minutes. We'll all take a short break before the next session."

Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged back down the hall, where, true to Manson's word, he was sick. There was nothing left to come up, though, so dry heaves seemed to be the order of the day. It was worse the before; lasting longer and wearing him the rest of the way out.

The light hurt his head. Oh. It _hurt. _But he forced himself to open his eyes and allow himself the opportunity to get used to it. His eyes had to work in order to use his phone, and right now that looked like it might be his only chance.

To distract himself until his vision cleared somewhat, he pulled himself up onto his knees so he could see into the mirror hanging above the low sink.

His face was white. Not just pale, but positively white. Like paper. The dark, bluish-black marks under his eyes made him look like a character on the cover of the vampire books Donovan was always reading. His hair hung in lank, wet curls plastered to his forehead with sweat; his shirt, normally snug, now clung to his skin, completely drenched with perspiration. He was freezing, though. It felt like he was soaked in ice water, and his reflection was shivering violently.

As Sherlock looked at his own eyes, though, he thought with a little thrill of loathing that maybe there was more than one reason for his shaking. None of the keen, light steely-grey color remained. Empty black pupils stared emotionlessly back at him. His eyes looked…dead. Vacant, like the eyes of some creature in the depths of the sea, used to staring through oblivion.

Sherlock suddenly felt a wave of dizziness and weakness blur his thoughts. He closed his eyes and slid down onto the floor again, pulling out his phone. What was happening to him? He pulled up Mycroft's page, not admitting to himself how much he hoped Mycroft had noticed. Apparently he hadn't, however; no reply. Sherlock typed slowly though his head screamed and he felt pretty disoriented, careful not to misspell any words. His texts to John must have been appalling.

A knock on the door made Sherlock jump.

"Sounds like you're doing a bit better, sir. I think it's time we went back."

Sherlock hid the phone.

The guy escorted him back to the dreaded dim room, saw that he was properly secured, and then left the room. Apparently the break for the others wasn't yet over and the guard wanted to snatch a few minutes, too. The only other occupant of the room was Chi-Sung. She reattached the sensor-strip to his head, and picked up the IV needle from the trolley. She brushed by his hand as she turned to re-insert it, and he caught her arm before she could. Her startled almond shaped eyes met his.

"Don't." He said. She could plainly see that he meant it. She tried to adopt a calming air, lightly squeezing his hand for a moment with her free hand, and smiling a little.

"You'll be alright, Mr. Holmes. I promise. It will all be okay, soon." Her voice was soft, but he could easily detect the tremor in it, even with his thought processes in shambles.

"You don't really believe that," he said. _Buy time. _

Her eyes filled with tears and she looked away.

"Why are you doing this? How is he making you do this? I can see you don't want to."

She was quiet for a moment.

"My little brother. He's…he was retarded since birth. He's the only family member I have left. I'm doing this for him. Dr. Manson will be able to help him. I have to. Please let go."

Sherlock didn't.

"Wait. A little longer." _Buy time. _

Chi-Sung gently pulled out of his grasp and inserted the first IV, and the second.

"You'll be just fine. I promise." And that was the end of the conversation.

Sherlock had been on his own most of his life. It didn't bother him. It was just a fact; that was how he worked. It was his lot. The concept of loneliness was foreign to him.

But as he felt the hateful drug again entering his bloodstream, clouding his mind, dragging at his eyelids, as he heard Dr. Manson and the other assistants reentering the room…he had never felt so alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Ta-da! Yes, it looks like our favorite detective is in over his head. :( Is he really going to loose his talents, but even more important, his <em>memories <em>of John? Two more updates coming up as fast as I can post them; let me know what you guys think! **

**P.S. I have to ask. Are there any fans of the '80s show "The A-Team" out there? On my California trip I have become thoroughly obsessed. Expect fanfictions in the future centering on those darling soldiers of fortune!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Here's some from John's perspective! Oh, and for any of you curious readers? There really is a private website called CSI Baker Street. You have to be a member/be invited for access. It's not been very active lately, but it's super cool. It's like a private social site for the characters of BBC 1's "SHERLOCK". Sherlock mostly uses it to antagonize Donovan and Anderson. There's some anonymous users on there, too, like the mysterious "Stalker". Anyway, that's why it's mentioned so much in the story. I didn't make it up. :)**

* * *

><p>John was on the flight back to England. Half hour until landing.<p>

Drumming his fingers on the comfortable armrest of the luxurious leather seat, he checked his watch. Twenty-nine minutes until landing. He glanced out of the window. England still hadn't come into view.

The phone hadn't even been tracked yet. When he'd texted Mycroft about having obtained the tracking info, Mycroft had called to forbid him passing it on to Mycroft or Lestrade over the phone. Mobile phone signals were far too easily intercepted, and heaven knew how many criminals were keeping tabs on John's phone calls. Letting whoever was listening know Sherlock's tracking information would be A Bit Not Good.

John refrained from cursing aloud at Mycroft and hung up, rather stiffly. Next he called Lestrade.

"Greg! I got the stuff."

"Great. Give me."

"I can't. Meet me at the airport in London soon as I land with a team and a laptop. We'll start as soon as I touch down."

"Listen, John, hurry. Have you seen CSI Baker Street lately?"

"I've been a bit occupied to be socializing online, Greg. Why?"

"Well, Donovan actually did something smart. Anderson suggested just texting Sherlock. I didn't allow it; I didn't want the text coming at the wrong time and the kidnappers finding his phone. So Donovan had the brilliant idea to check the website for any attempts at communication. We found some stuff. You should take a look at Mycroft's profile, John. We need to hurry it up." Greg sounded grave.

"Right. I'm leaving now. Be there soon's I can. Remember; a team ready at the airport. I'll be coming off Mycroft's private jet."

"Right. We'll be there."

John hung up, and quickly pulled up CSI Baker Street. Why hadn't he thought of that? Donovan figuring something out before him…if Sherlock ever found out –John stopped and corrected himself- _when _Sherlock found out, he'd never hear the end of it. John's heart dropped into his stomach when he saw Sherlock's last comment left on Mycroft's page.

**I think I might be dying. I'm afraid. Please. Find me soon. **

Now, as he checked his watch again, (fourteen minutes until landing) John couldn't stop thinking about that. It didn't sound like Sherlock. But there was no code in it, John was sure. He'd thought of nothing else for the last eleven hours of flight. Sherlock had been drugged, John knew, when he was kidnapped. Who's to say they weren't still drugging him? That would explain the bazaar uncharacteristic vulnerability of Sherlock's message. John's jaw hardened.

Sherlock was scared. That was enough to put John's protective instincts as a friend and his fighting instincts as a soldier at an all-time high.

When the wheels touched down on the runway, John could see a fleet of five or six police cars waiting. Lestrade had taken care of security; John rushed down the stairs from the plane two by two and slid into the back seat of the cruiser. Lestrade was driving, Donovan in the passenger seat with a laptop.

"Password?" Donovan asked, urgently, as Lestrade turned on the lights and siren and pulled away, the rest of the cars following. John even spotted a black government car tailing them. Apparently Mycroft deemed his little brother's safety at least worth a trip out.

"Ab uno disce omnes," John replied.

"Latin?" Lestrade asked.

"Means 'from one, learn all'. It refers to a single observation pointing to a larger truth. I looked it up. I suppose though with him it could have a double meaning, knowing his ego."

"Fits him, doesn't it?" Donovan said. John noticed she looked like she'd been crying. What on earth? The woman who called him "Freak" every day to his face crying when he was missing. John was inexplicably angry.

"Have you got a location yet?" Lestrade asked, "I don't know where I'm going."

"Yes. But it can't be right."

"Come on, Donovan, give it!"

"It's…it's at St. Bart's."

"_What?!" _John and Lestrade asked in unison. Lestrade pushed the button on his radio to speak to the other cars.

"We're headed for St. Bart's guys; lights and sirens on the way but shut them off when we're close."

"Copy, sir."

John was dialing Molly's mobile number.

"Molly, this is John."

"John? Hi!" Molly said, sounding as if she wondered what this phone call was about.

"Where in the hospital could somebody hide?"

"Hide? What do you-"

"Sherlock's missing, Molly. We're on our way over with the police; we tracked his phone. He's being held there."

"He…he could be in the basement…I guess…we were told a crew from a college was renting space down there to conduct some studies and experiments. I never go down there; it hasn't been used in ages."

"Alright. Get out of the building; we'll be there in a minute." He hesitated. Molly sounded upset. "It'll be okay Molly."

"Okay. Okay, John." She hung up.

"Basement. He's probably in the basement," John said. Lestrade spoke into the radio again. "Jennings, get Hospital security to get everyone out from the ground level up, in case there's gunfight. Leave the basement. And tell them to be as…normal as they can about it."

The tires screeched as the police came to a stop outside of the hospital. A crowd was gathering outside, both of curious spectators and of hospital staff and patients who had been evacuated in preparation of the police's search. John was out of the car before it stopped completely. Molly was waiting outside the door.

"John-"

"Molly. Show us to the basement," Lestrade ordered. Molly nodded, flustered, and hurried inside. They ran across the lobby, and she took them to an out-of-the-way stairwell.

"It's right down there."

"Stay here," Lestrade ordered. "Guns ready, guys," he shouted to the rest of the team. Seven or eight policemen, at least. John pulled out his army pistol.

"Is there anything I can do-" Molly started.

"Call Mrs. Hudson and tell her what's going on. Be right back, Molly," John said, "We'll get him out of there."

And they started down the stairwell.

* * *

><p>Lestrade and John led the way. When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, they were confronted with a short hallway, with several doors leading to three more hallways. Three of them.<p>

"Split up," Lestrade ordered, "Radio if you find anything."

John took the one to the left with two officers.

"Check the doors on both sides," John said, "I'll take the door at the end."

He ran to the end and through the door…to find another, short hall. This one only had two doors. One was just a bathroom. The other one…John peeked in through the little window in the door before entering.

The room was dim; almost dark. Sherlock was there though. Was he…? No, he couldn't be. John refused to entertain the idea. He was strapped to a table, with at least two IVs in him and several other sensors. There were lots of other people in the room...John didn't want to risk going in alone. They might just kill Sherlock.

John cursed under his breath. He had no radio. And he didn't dare leave to get the others for fear of what might happen to Sherlock in the meantime. He continued to watch while he tried to decide what to do.

Sherlock moved. Thank God, he moved. Not much, due to the restraints, but his whole body jerked. His chest rose and fell dramatically a few times; John couldn't see his face in the dim light. He wished he could. The jolt came again, and Sherlock uttered a sharp cry. John's eyes widened. They were shocking him. Any thought of waiting for backup flew out the window.

Kicked the door in and threw the switch on, flooding the room in bright white light. The startled assistants turned to face him, squinting in the sudden illumination. John pointed his gun at all of them in turn.

"Get down! Get down, all of you! On the floor, now!"

Obediently they dropped to the floor. John rushed to Sherlock's side.

"Hey, you okay? Can you hear me, Sherlock? Come on, wake up!" Sherlock didn't really respond, and John was horrified by his appearance. He looked…he looked very dead. Aside from his rough, shallow breathing. John could tell from the pattern that Sherlock was in pain.

A young oriental woman stepped from behind a nearby wall. John hadn't noticed her through the observation window. He pointed his gun at her.

"What's wrong with him? What have you done to him, why can't he hear me?"

"He's hallucinating. Inside his own mind. They both are." Chi-Sung motioned to Dr. Manson, who was also lying, apparently passed out, nearby. He was hooked up to similar equipment to Sherlock's, John noticed.

"Why are you shocking him?"

"He wasn't cooperating with Dr. Manson's project, and it was the method of stimulation I was instructed to use." She seemed upset. John ignored her.

"Forget it. I don't even want to know at the moment what this stuff is for," John spoke quickly and motioned to the equipment hooked up to Sherlock, "but untie him right now. And stop bloody shocking him!"

Chi-Sung nodded, biting her trembling lower lip. She pulled the plug on the computer connected to the sensors, and gently removed the white strip from Sherlock's head. She clamped the tubes on the IVs and deftly removed them; John noted angrily that there were bruises on both arms where the IV had been repeatedly removed and reinserted.

"Are you John?" she asked, quietly, undoing the straps and using a key to release the metal cuffs.

"Yes."

"He's talked about you. When he was asleep."

John was taking Sherock's pulse, noting how burning hot his friend was. Dangerously so. He glanced up at Chi-Sung, and noticed the tears in her eyes for the first time.

"I didn't want to do it," she whispered.

John was surprised, but his face relaxed the slightest bit and he nodded once.

"He'll be waking up in a minute or two," she said, turning her attention back to Sherlock, "His mind…he's not…we hadn't succeeded yet in penetrating his consciousness, but he might have ripped his own mind apart from the inside, trying to keep us out. He might not know you."

"He'll know me," John said, with a confidence he didn't feel, "Help me get him to sit up."

Carefully he pulled Sherlock's limp and unresponsive form into a sitting position on the table. John firmly clamped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders to keep him that way, so that he was leaning against John. But still Sherlock didn't react.

John still had the gun in one hand; he didn't trust Manson's assistants.

"What've you been giving him?" John asked, nodding toward the discarded IVs.

"It was a hallucinogenic drug Dr. Manson formulated to-"

"A _what? _How much of this has he been given? For how long?"

"Almost since he first got here. He had a strong resistance to it. By now…we've probably given him enough to overdose four normal people. I've been monitoring his reactions, but I was told not to stop until the job was done. I'm…I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean…"

Sherlock stirred, bringing an abrupt end to the conversation. A shudder ran through his body, and he began to shiver. His breathing changed, becoming much more uneven and labored.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Mmmm," Sherlock mumbled.

"Sherlock, you can hear me?"

"John."

"Yep. Yep, I'm here. Sorry it took so bloody long; Mycroft and his notions, you know. Had to travel half-way 'round the world- you okay?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, I need to check you over. Make sure you're okay. Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes.

"No, John."

"Sherlock, you're not even looking."

"No."

"Alright then," John said, shaking his head and tucking his gun into his belt so he could grab a penlight with his freehand. He adjusted his arm around Sherlock so he could open one of his eyes and shone the penlight in.

Sherlock gave a sharp cry, and twisted his head away. With one hand he grabbed John's hand with the light, and with the other he seized John's jacket for an anchor. But John had seen his eyes. Quickly he turned the light off. Sherlock slumped against him again, worn out completely.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd react that way," John said, disturbed. Sherlock hadn't loosed his vice hold on John's jacket, though his other hand had fallen back down to the table.

"Oh," Sherlock moaned, his voice quavering a little.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I'm thirsty. Where's Lestrade? Why aren't we getting out of here?"

"He's coming. He'll be here soon," _I hope, _John added in his mind. But he didn't say that. Sherlock was not doing well. He'd never seen him this vulnerable.

"I don't care, but where's the rabbit?" Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"N-nothing, I don't know why I said that," Sherlock said, sounding confused. "I don't think a bedpost can be charged with first-degree murder, technically speaking…what am I _talking _about, John? I'm…I'm not working right, am I?" he asked.

John's heart beat faster at the weakness in the detective's voice. He sounded…scared. _Hurry, Greg, Hurry, Greg, Hurry…_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Yeah, so this is the bit where Sherlock is really out of character, if you know what I mean. But from personal experience I can tell you that drugs can weird you out so much...you don't act yourself at all. I've never taken hallucinogenics or any recreational drugs, (Ha! Worried some of you for a minute, didn't I?) but I have woken up from a few surgeries before. And. Was. <em>WACKY.<em>****So not to say that Sherlock would ever act like this: I still think he's out of character and everything, but for the purpose of the story this was what I was thinking. :D **


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Here we are! The third update today. We should now be all caught up and on schedule. Hooray! Getting my fanfiction account straightened out and managing my stories are really doing wonders for settling me back into my day-to-day life. Once again, pardon Sherlock's drugged-up-ness. And don't worry, after this chapter things will get considerably lighter. ;) I don't _only _write angst, you know!**

**Disclaimer: I have realized just now that the last two chapters did not contain disclaimers. O.O Oops. But rest assured, I still don't own anybody from SHERLOCK. I didn't during the last two chapters, and I don't in this one. :) There. Does that cover it? **

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><p>"You're just a little confused," John said, as if it wasn't a big deal. Sherlock Holmes, acting like this, of <em>course <em>it was a big deal.

"Will it go away?" Sherlock was very grave when he asked that.

"Yes. Definitely, of course it will," John said, trying to mask his own worry.

"I'm freezing. Give me back my coat."

"No, you're not freezing. You're burning up."

"My coat, John. Please."

"You can't have it. You'll kill yourself overheating."

"It's _so cold, _and I'm _losing it, _and it _hurts-" _Sherlock broke off rather abruptly, turning his face into John's coat. John felt him begin to shake, no sound coming from him. Quickly he glanced at him, thinking he was choking…but he wasn't. He was _crying. _John turned slightly away from Chi-Sung, putting his shoulder between her and Sherlock to afford him some privacy. "John, there's something…something I'm forgetting, something important I have to tell you," Sherlock said, urgently, after a moment. His voice was still thick. "But I can't _remember…_Me, John. I can't _remember…_Oh! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John. Don't hate me. I'm so sorry." The silent sobs shook his frame again.

John really was getting scared.

"Why on earth would I hate you? Why are you sorry?"

"I didn't get the shopping," Sherlock confessed. Delirious. John forced himself to sound cheerful for Sherlock's benefit.

"Good thing you didn't, too."

Sherlock paused, apparently trying to work that one out. After a moment, he said,

"Why?"

"Because if you had, I'd be even more worried."

Sherlock smiled a little.

"I'm so tired," Sherlock observed, "Stupid transport."

"How's your transport doing, by the way? How's the pain?"

"Appalling. Head. Eyes. Wrists, too, I think. Hadn't noticed that before." John glanced at Sherlock's wrists; they were bruised, and one might be broken from jerking against the cuffs. "I feel sick. I'm so _thirsty._ And cold. And tired. I think I already said that."

"Can you walk?"

"No. Can't move."

"You sure moved when I checked your eyes."

"Reflex, John. Involuntary."

"Right. Don't worry then. We'll get out."

"I didn't…I didn't get the shopping. I'll do it when we get back. I didn't…" Sherlock's head drooped farther down and his breathing evened out somewhat.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

John looked at Chi-Sung, debating whether to send her for the police. He didn't trust her, though, despite her apparent distress. He certainly wasn't about to leave Sherlock alone with these people again; not hurt and confused and upset as he was. Nothing guaranteed he would still be alive when John returned; Chi-Sung informed him that he'd already stopped breathing once.

"Ah. Found him, I see."

John looked over his shoulder at the door…Mycroft stood in the doorway, umbrella in hand. He strode into the room, pale faced, stopping by the table and observing his brother.

"Unconscious," John explained, noting the flash of panic in Mycroft's eyes, "He needs help though. I'm not used to dealing with breakdowns."

"That's why we're here," Lestrade's voice said. He entered the room, gun ready, with the other policemen. Donovan was right behind.

"We've got these guys, John. You can take Sherlock for help now. Molly is coming with a stretcher-"

"I'm here!" called a breathless Molly, "Is he okay?"

"He will be. Help me get him on. Let's get him out of here."

* * *

><p>Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in a bed. A real bed, and a comfortable one at that. The room was dark, though the glow of daylight still made it's muffled way through the heavy curtains drawn over the windows. It wasn't a hospital room…far too nice for that. The Diogenes Club. It must be. It was quiet, and Sherlock noticed that he felt warm for the first time in what seemed like far too long.<p>

His head wasn't screaming at him, anymore, and felt a good bit clearer, though some soreness remained. He looked down at his hands. A stiff, white cast encased his right wrist; he must have broken it somehow. Apparently he was on the mend. His gaze flicked over the room again.

A little get-well card from Mrs. Hudson stood on the side table. Flowers from Molly. Silly sentimental stuff. And…a glass of water. Sherlock snatched it up, spilling a bit with his stiff unmanageable wrist, and drank it all at once.

It was pleasant lying there. He decided he would put off getting up for a while and just enjoy it a bit longer.

So he waited three minutes.

A fresh, un-rumpled set of his own clothes was waiting lying over the back of a chair ready for him. He threw his covers back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and the door opened. John was grinning at him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Getting up."

"Really."

"Really." Sherlock gave him a look that said, "duh."

"Sherlock, you can't get up yet. You're eyes aren't back to normal. Give it until tomorrow."

"My eyes are fine."

"Yeah?" John flipped the light-switch on. Sherlock yelped and buried his face in the blankets, and John turned the light back off. "You're doing much better, really, Sherlock. Just give it a bit longer. And I wouldn't try to get away, either," John went on, when Sherlock raised his head from the sheets and looked mutinous, "Mycroft's got a guard stationed outside the door..."

Sherlock's glance flickered to the window.

"...and the window," John finished. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And I'd play along nice, if you want in on the fun. Court case for Manson is tomorrow, Sherlock."

Sherlock was immediately interested.

"Did they get all of them?"

"Yes. Apparently Manson had connections with Moriarty."

"Of course."

"Moriarty was going to help him market his invention to the Honduran government after it was tested. Manson was smart enough not to tell Jim who he was testing it on, though, or I doubt Moriarty would've been so keen to help. You know, with his obsession. Wouldn't want anybody getting to you first."

Sherlock's gaze hardened, but he nodded.

"And what happened with the Honduran government?"

"Anthea and Mycroft got that sorted. Paid the officials involved a good amount of money not to buy the apparatus, and threatened to have them terminated if they did. You know how charming your brother can be. Apparently Anthea needed Mycroft's phone to prove Mycroft's personal involvement in the deal, and that she wasn't just using his name. He couldn't go personally, of course, for security reasons."

"So he sent his female assistant instead, to the murder capital of the world, no less. Typical Mycroft," Sherlock snorted.

"That's why it took so long to find you. I had to fly all the way to Honduras and back to get your tracking info from Mycroft's phone."

"So. The trial's tomorrow?" Sherlock looked pointedly at John. "You do realize I'm going, don't you? Whether you like it or not."

John shook his head, but couldn't help laughing with relief.

"Yes. We're both going. You were the one he tried to drive out of your mind, after all. And I gotta say, I was worried for a bit that he might have."

Sherlock looked away, and was silent for a long moment. John was sorry he'd said anything. That must have hurt.

"How was I?" he said, finally. John was careful with his answer.

"Pretty mixed up for awhile. You freaked the nurses at hospital out a bit with some of the stuff you were saying; Mycroft had you pulled out of there soon as we knew you'd be okay. We have doctors here and supplies; guess he figured you could recuperate just as well." John paused. Sherlock had apparently stopped listening. "Sherlock…_are_ you okay?"

"Yes. Okay." Sherlock gazed into space, brow furrowed. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. He frowned.

"Because if you-"

"No John."

"What?"

"I know what you were going to say. No. I don't want to talk about it. You can go." Sherlock looked pointedly at John for a moment, and then looked away again.

"Um…right. Okay, then," John said, uncertainly, "I'll have somebody bring you something to eat and some more water, if you'd like."

"Fine."

"Really? Fine?" John was skeptical.

"Yes. Fine. Case is closed; time for my customary crash."

"Alright. Um…then…see you tomorrow?"

"Mm."

John withdrew, and stood outside the door a minute, thinking.

"I trust Mr. Holmes is comfortable, sir?" one of the guards asked. John nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks. He's…he's good."

But as he found his way back to the sunlit parlor in which he'd spent the morning, he wasn't so sure.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: This was written before season three aired, hence the still-living-ness of Moriarty. ;) I want to thank everybody who has been commenting on here and leaving reviews; it really means a lot to me. And I want to encourage those of you who have something to say, to go ahead and say it! Even if you don't like what I wrote, as long as it's constructive criticism I'm totally open! Don't be afraid to be a bit harsh with your critiques if you feel you need to; that's how we writers get better, by being teachable. Love you guys! Next update, coming up Friday! <strong>

**P.S. I just realized that I got ahead of my game and thought today was Monday. It's Sunday. So I just posted my Monday update a day early. Oops! Sorry guys. Still kind of scatterbrained from my trip. Next update hopefully really will be on Friday. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: YES! It's Friday and I'm UPDATING! Being back on schedule is a wonderful thing, no? Anyways, this chapter is a bit lighter than the rest. A slight break in angst. :D I figured all you guys deserved it. And I had a lot of fun writing it, after watching my Dad teach my brother how to tie a tie. And I also noticed in the show that Sherlock never wears ties. He even says it in "Riechenbach Fall. "I don't wear ties." There was one exception. John's wedding. Thought that was interesting to note. So anyway, enjoy some slight fluff while it lasts! More emotional stress in upcoming chapters. :-D**

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><p>"I don't understand why you don't want to wear it, dear."<p>

"Mrs. Hudson. Have you _ever _seen me wear a tie?"

"No, which is even more reason for you to wear it. I imagine you'd be quite dashing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his head flop back on the headrest of the armchair. Impossible woman. Enough that she thought she had to come bring him breakfast at seven-thirty in the morning, made the bed for him as he ate, chattered incessantly the whole twenty minutes she'd been there; now she was trying to get him to wear a tie to the trial. A _striped _one. He'd never even understood the point of ties.

"John's wearing one."

"Good for him."

"Sherlock…"

"I don't do ties, Mrs. Hudson."

"…Well, I'd better get off home, then. Glad you're feeling better, dear. You and John are coming back to Baker Street later, aren't you? After the trial's over for the day? Or are you going to spend another night here?"

"We'll be back."

"Good. I'll try to have the place tidied up when you get back." She said it lightly, but Sherlock detected a distinct note of mischief in her voice.

"Tidied up?"

"Good heavens, dear, don't pretend you don't know it's a disaster zone up there. But don't worry, I'll have everything straightened and sparkling when you-"

Sherlock felt a twinge of panic.

"You know how I feel about people touching my things, Mrs. Hudson. And moving them. How am I supposed to find anything if people are always moving them?"

"Well I do have an awful lot to do…maybe I could put it off until another day…" her glance flicked meaningfully at the tie lying on the foot of the bed and back at Sherlock. He made a face. Of course. Having raised several sons, she would have had to be a Master Manipulator.

"Fine. I'll wear it and you won't touch anything. Deal?"

She grinned broadly.

"I suppose that's fair. I'll see you later at Baker Street. I'll bring you boys up something to eat when I hear you come in; just this once you know. Have fun!" She waved at him and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock huffed and bounced to his feet, striding over to the heavily-curtained windows. Gingerly, he moved one of them aside, allowing a thin ray of yellow morning sun to enter the room. It was bright. But it didn't hurt. He smirked a little with satisfaction and threw back both curtains. He had a trial today.

Trials were fun.

Turning back to the room, he snatched his clothes up as he passed the chair and swept into the bathroom for a shower. Ten minutes later he was sitting on the bed, in a classy navy button up and black slacks, struggling with the hateful tie.

There was a special knot, he knew…how did you do it? Was it…no, it went _this _way…and then you went _over…_okay. That wasn't right. Sherlock ripped it off with a snarl, throwing it down on the bed next to him. He reached for his phone. Maybe there was a tutorial on YouTube.

* * *

><p>John straightened his collar and knocked on the door. He was wearing a suit and tie for the occasion. They had to leave in fifteen minutes, and he hadn't yet seen Sherlock that morning.<p>

"Yeah…yeah, come in," Sherlock said, sounding distracted. John curiously opened the door and stopped in his tracks.

"What are you doing?" he asked. Sherlock had a tie draped around his neck, looking at his phone intently. Sherlock glanced up.

"Nothing, apparently. There's nothing at all helpful on here. Can't people even draw a decent diagram?"

"Diagram for what…is that a tie, Sherlock? You're wearing a tie?" John couldn't believe it. He grinned. Sherlock scowled.

"Correction: I'm _attempting_ to wear a tie."

"You don't know how to tie it. That's what you're looking up on your phone." It wasn't a question. "Didn't your Dad or someone ever teach you?"

Sherlock stared at him.

John shook his head. One of his favorite memories was his dad teaching him to do his tie…Dr. Watson Sr. had died of a stroke before John had gone to the army, but John still remembered watching his Dad's every move and trying to imitate them in the mirror. Sherlock had never had that.

"Here," John said, undoing his own tie and moving across the room to sit beside Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely curious.

"You want to do the tie, right? Time someone showed you how."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Well? What do you think? Besides the obvious "short". It was kind of short, I'm sorry about that. But that really was the best place to stop before the next...um...thing happened. :) Was it sweet? Or just boring? And how was Mrs. Hudson? I don't have much experience writing her. Leave a review! They brighten my life. ;)<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Monday morning, _just _before I have to dash out the door to the office after an early morning of home work assignments already...and I find time to post an update. Don't you guys just love me? ;) Seriously though, you really have to let me know what you think of this one. It's one of the most...controversial passages of the story, when I've let friends read it. (There's another controversial part, but it hasn't happened yet so I won't spoil it for you) And I think it might be one of my favorite parts of the story, as well. At any rate, it's one of the ones I can _see _the most, in my head. With the actors, and their voices and mannerisms, and the soft theme music in the background, and the style of the cinematography...anyway. I'm curious to hear what ya'll think, good or bad. I'm open! Don't be afraid to say you didn't like something. And most of all, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own nothin'. So there. **

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><p>Sherlock climbed out of the back of the police car in front of Old Bailey, taking a moment to straighten his tie. Despite the stripes, he found he actually liked it. At least, as John pointed out, it wasn't polka-dotted. He would probably never wear one again, just as a matter of principal, but now he knew how to do several different types of knots, (there was Windsor, Half-Windsor, Pratt Knot, and Four-In-Hand) and a memory filed away to replace one of the ones he'd lost.<p>

The ones he'd lost. He'd have to do something about that. But not now; he and John practically had to fight their way through the reporters to get to the door of the building. The trial was not scheduled to start yet, and the courtroom doors were closed however, and so they were forced to wait in the airy atrium outside while the reporters swarmed around them, shouting over each other.

"Mr. Holmes, could you tell us the circumstances leading up to the kidnapping?"

"What are your hopes concerning the outcome of the trial?"

"No comment," Sherlock said, but the next reporter was already talking.

"Do you harbor resentment towards the accused for the alleged kidnapping?"

"Dr. Watson, is it true you were instrumental in the recovery of Mr. Holmes?"

"I really don't have any comment on that," John replied.

"Did you really travel to Honduras? What was the reason for that trip?"

John caught Sherlock's eye and shook his head with an exasperated half-grin. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mr. Holmes, can you confirm the report that you were tortured during your captivity?"

John could feel Sherlock stiffen next to him.

"Are you still suffering any mental disturbances as an effect of Manson's experiments?"

"How do you think this will affect your career as a private detective?"

Bad.

"No comment at this time," John said, his voice loud and firm, in an attempt to stop the questions. They were obviously bothering Sherlock. The reporters weren't daunted. John wasn't the interesting one at the moment anyway.

"Mr. Holmes, are you apprehensive that your apparent inability to avoid instances like this, taken with the after affects of your alleged ordeal, might prove to the public that you're not as safe to be trusted with their problems as they thought?"

John glanced at Sherlock, who looked stunned.

"I…" was all he managed to say. The constant flashes of the cameras blinded him, the yelling hurt his head. _You're not safe to be trusted. _No, maybe he really wasn't. He couldn't even trust his own mind; the thing he'd had complete control over, the thing that gave him such power, had betrayed him. He'd lost some of the memories he'd been the most determined to hold on to. He'd acted like an idiot, too, he was sure. John hadn't said it, but he could guess well enough what he must have been like.

The reporters had fallen silent, now that they'd managed to shake him from behind his impenetrable front. Eagerly they stared at him, waiting. The click of the cameras still went on for a long moment as Sherlock looked around in bewilderment.

John's jaw tensed. He reached for a microphone, taking it out of the hand of an eager TV reporter.

"Shut up, all of you. We said. No. Comment. Any more questions will be counted as harassment and will be reported to the police as such." He was surprised by how calm his voice was, taking into account the trembling rage he felt inside. He handed back the mike and took Sherlock's elbow, guiding him away from the crowd. They noticeably didn't follow.

* * *

><p>"…Are you okay?"<p>

John's voice was apprehensive. Sherlock glanced up and saw the worry in his face. He looked away again. He was leaning against the wall in the stairwell, staring out the narrow bullet-proof window onto the back parking-lot.

John tried again.

"It was stupid of them; but you know they just like to get a rise out of people."

"…"

John sighed. He didn't know what to say now. So he just stood by his friend, waiting.

"How did they know?" Sherlock finally said.

"What?"

"Who talked to them about me?"

"Nurses, probably. From hospital. Mycroft wouldn't have, and I sure didn't."

Sherlock snorted, but didn't say anything.

"Listen, are you really okay? You've not been quite normal since-"

"Why? Because I might not be safe to be trusted anymore? Is that what you're worried about?" Sherlock's back was to John, but he could still read the anger in his voice.

"What? No! No, of course not!"

"Because that's what _I'm _worried about," Sherlock said, so quietly John could hardly hear him. He turned around to look John in the face for the first time since the confrontation with the reporters.

"I can't remember things. Important things. Things I should remember. Everything's wrong up there."

"Sherlock, it's just-"

But Sherlock charged ahead, not waiting for an answer.

"There's something to do with handcuffs…or something…and I _know _I should know what it means. But I don't. I sent stupid messages on CSI Baker Street, the texts I sent you were spelled atrociously, and I apparently ranted like a madman at the nurses, who in turn blabbed to everyone else in the world who wants something to gossip about. I can remember some of what I said. Why can I remember that and not what I _need_ to remember?"

Sherlock paused. John wanted to interject something comforting, but he sensed Sherlock still had things to say. So he waited.

"I can't be trusted anymore. I can't trust _myself, _my own mind. My whole life, my mind was my greatest weapon, the only thing I could trust. And now it's gone. It's like that night on Dart-moor. But instead of just doubting my own eyes…I can't count on anything."

Sherlock turned away again and sat down heavily on the top step, his back to John. John watched Sherlock struggle a moment. He could imagine what Sherlock was feeling right now. And he wasn't sure exactly what to say. Sherlock hardly ever opened up like this; what was John supposed to do?

Sherlock looked up, startled, when John sat down next to him. He'd expected him to leave; to go find their seats in the courtroom and wait for Sherlock to compose himself and rejoin him. But there he was, sitting down beside Sherlock.

"You're still there, you know. You're not gone, Sherlock. And it might take awhile to get yourself sorted out; heaven knows you've been put through enough to give anyone trouble. But it will go away in time. All the doctors said there'd be no lasting damage. Psychological effects, maybe, for a bit…"

Sherlock was listening, but he didn't say anything.

"And listen," John went on, "You don't have to only rely on yourself. There are people who care about you, Sherlock; Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and even your brother, though you don't like to admit it. And me. We all trust you. This whole thing didn't change that at all. But you got to realize that you can trust us, too. You don't have to always go it alone."

Sherlock stared at him a long moment. This conversation was incredibly hard for him to have. But it sort of felt good, even through the awkwardness and confusion and pain. He took a deep breath.

"When I was trying to keep Manson out, I saw almost at once I couldn't do it by myself. My will wasn't enough. So I tried using facts and files of old cases I had up there against him. Those didn't do it, either. The only thing that kept me from going mad was the memories of the people. Those were the ones that counted."

"And those were the ones you lost?" John's voice was understanding.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, turning his face away a minute.

"What did it feel like, John," Sherlock said, after a pause, "when the war still bothered you?"

"It felt like this," John said, "But I survived. A friend helped me pull through it. And I'm gonna do the same for that friend when he needs me." He held his hand out. Sherlock gave a little hoarse half-laugh and shook it.

_"Frederick Manson trial, commencing in five minutes. Participants and spectators to courtroom six." _The intercom crackled the announcement throughout the building, alerting any stragglers.

Sherlock stood up, clearing his throat. He tugged crisply on his jacket to snap any imaginary wrinkles out.

"Right then, now that we've got all that taken care of; let's go see what will befall our friend Dr. Manson."

"I wish we had something to make us less noticeable. The vultures will be keeping their eyes sharp," John said, regretfully. Sherlock grinned.

"You do realize you can't report the sourcing of reporters as harassment, don't you?"

John shook his head, but he couldn't help grinning, too.

"Yeah. But apparently they didn't know that. I'm sure they've been on the phone with their lawyers or checked a website and found out it's a lie by now, though."

"We could change the knots in our ties," Sherlock suggested. John tittered his high-pitched giggly laugh, and Sherlock's smooth baritone joined in.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Yeah, so Sherlock might be a little uncharacteristically vulnerable in this scene. I just wanted to toy with the idea of a "Baskerville moment", except with something bigger and more important to him. In Baskerville it was only his eyes. Now it's his mind. I just wanted to see how he'd react to that. So just exploring here! Feel free to comment or suggest. I love hearing from you guys. 3 <strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: It's Friday, guys! Happy Halloween to those of you who celebrate it, and Happy October 31st to those of you who don't. ;) Anyway, here's a nice calm chapter for you guys. And guess what? There will only be one or two more updates after this one, and then the story will be DONE. O.O Whoa. What do you think about that? I hope you have a great day, and don't forget to leave a comment! I love the reviews. *drools greedily* You guys enjoy, 'kay? **

**Disclaimer: Um, last time I checked I still don't own the characters. Darn it. If I did, Benedict and Martin would be working on filming a movie of SHERLOCK to be shown in theaters worldwide. **

* * *

><p>John folded the cable-knit jumper and slid it into the drawer, pushing it closed with his knee. He straightened up and looked around the bedroom. It had been a disaster area lately, which was unusual for him.<p>

But Sherlock's kidnapping, the last-minute trip to Honduras, the trial, the unavoidable paperwork involved with the court case and the police records, the press conference that had managed to be arranged despite John's or Sherlock's wishes, (and with the lack Lestrade's permission, as well) the follow-up hospital visits which John had had to _force _Sherlock to show for, (John's suggestion for a therapist was met with immediate and flat refusal) had all kept him busy. He'd just enough time in the last few weeks to dig through his clothes in the morning to find something to wear and leave them in a pile on the floor at night before falling into bed late at night, trying to get a few hours of sleep before the full and hectic day tomorrow.

But things had calmed down. And the first thing John decided to do after getting home from work this Wednesday afternoon was to get his room back in order. Pristine and almost painfully neat, army style. They needed some groceries, but that could wait until tomorrow. He was _not _going to sleep in a wrecked room another night.

Sherlock was gone. Mrs. Hudson had seen him that morning; she'd texted John a few times a day while he was out, giving him updates on Sherlock. John knew they'd both been watching him a little closer than they probably should, and he knew Sherlock noticed, despite their attempts at discretion. He didn't blame Sherlock for getting out of the house, and he wasn't too worried. He'd give his friend until after dark.

He tugged once more on the corner of his bed throw and glanced once more around the room. He'd even run the vacuum up here. He liked the crisp stripes the vacuum cleaner left in the carpet. He nodded, and then grabbed his computer and headed downstairs to write a blog post.

He settled in his chair and pulled up his blogging dashboard…but what could he write? He felt like writing about what had happened would be a sort of…betrayal. And yet it was a big event in their lives just to let slip by without any chronicling. But if he did write some reference to it down, what would he say? "_Sherlock nearly went crazy" _wasn't at all right, but that was what stuck out about the case mostly in John's mind. He grinned. He could write about how Mrs. Hudson forced Sherlock to wear a tie…_that _was funny. She'd told him about it. But it didn't seem like something worthy of a whole post. He chewed his lip, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Blogging?"

John jumped.

"Sherlock! Don't do that, I'll shoot you on reflex one of these days," John said, slamming his computer closed and rubbing his face with both hands. Sherlock grinned and stood back up straight from where he'd been leaning to look over John's shoulder.

"Where've you been?" John asked, getting up to make himself a cuppa. He stopped in the kitchen doorway. The chemistry stuff was cleared away and the table was covered in bags from the market. "Wha- Sherlock, where'd this come from? Did you do this?"

"Did I do what?"

Sherlock's voice called from the living-room where he'd tumbled onto the couch with a book on unsolved cases of the 17th century.

John turned around and came back into the living-room.

"There's the shopping, Sherlock. In the kitchen."

"Well, you didn't get it. I needed some things anyway, so I-"

"You went to the market?"

Sherlock huffed and finally removed the book from in front of his face, looking extremely annoyed.

"No, John. I just found it all abandoned on the front doorstep, so naturally I thought to bring it up." His voice was sarcastic.

John shook his head and walked back into the kitchen to put the groceries away. Milk. Two cartons of it. He put one in the freezer so it wouldn't go bad. Some ground meat, a sack of sugar and flour… all normal stuff. Useful stuff. Stuff on the actual shopping list. But John hadn't said anything about shopping. Well, not since…

He understood.

He walked back into the living-room and sat down in the chair, pulling the laptop back open. He couldn't see Sherlock actually doing it, of course, but he knew he was stealing glances at him from behind his book when John wasn't looking.

"I forgot to put tile-cleaning solution on the list; we'll need to pick some up," he said, conversationally. Sherlock snorted and threw his book down, but John noted that he looked intensely relieved that John wasn't going to cross-examine him.

"_You _can pick it up tomorrow on the way home from work. I'm not going back."

John grinned, and nodded.

"Fine. But now that the table's cleaned off, could we try to keep it that way? At least until this weekend? I wanted a date over for dinner."

Sherlock shrugged, bounding up from the couch and walking into the kitchen to make the tea John had forgotten on seeing the groceries.

"Sure. If nothing comes up where I immediately need it…"

John rolled his eyes, and then turned his attention back to his blog. Maybe just typing a summary would help him organize his thoughts. He was halfway through the court-case when something occurred to him.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

Sherlock returned from the kitchen and handed John a cup of tea, (without sugar) before settling into the chair opposite with his coffee.

"What happened to that Asian girl? That Chi-Sung, or whatever her name was? She wasn't put on trial, in fact I don't remember seeing her after we found you at all. Do you think she might have…"

"Escaped? No. Well, sort of." Sherlock had a cryptic little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"What do you mean?" John's brow furrowed deeper. "Is she…dead?"

"No."

"Then I don't understand-"

Sherlock sat the mug down beside his chair and leaned forward, all seriousness again.

"D'you want to see?"

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Sherlock got the shopping! Unheard of. And not something John should probably expect to happen again. ;) Lemme know whatcha think, guys! Next chapter or two we'll be finding out what's up with Chi Sung, and then wrapping it up. Stay tuned; next update Monday!<strong>

**P.S. Oh yeah, after the last chapter, did you see why I chose the story cover image that I did? **


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: My word, guys! This is the last chapter. O.O Oops! That snuck up on me; didn't know it would be so soon. This is the other controversial part, and to be honest, just as an up-front...I don't necessarily agree with the choices Sherlock makes in this chapter. He made it as a character in my head, and I wrote it. I think he did do a _good_ thing, but...ugh, you'll just have to read it to see what I mean. :P I hope you guys like it, and even if you don't, feel free to let me know and explain why. I am very open-minded. :) Normally. ;) Just kidding, no, really guys. Lemme know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: Paxton and Chi Sung are mine. The rest belongs to minds greater than my own. **

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><p>"I need you to be present anyway, to witness the signing of some documents…Mycroft of necessity knows about it, but he wouldn't trouble to leave his lair. Although," Sherlock added, as a reluctant afterthought, "he has been unusually helpful in the matter. To a point."<p>

John was a little worried. What documents was Sherlock signing? And Mycroft was collaborating on the issue, whatever it was; _that _sounded ominous. He looked out the cab window and tried to guess where they were going. He hadn't recognized the address Sherlock had given the driver, and the added instruction to "take us the back way and drop us off behind" sounded mysterious too. Obviously this was not something Sherlock wanted everybody knowing about.

When they arrived, it was an extremely pleasant spot. A very large, but tastefully architected building stood towering several stories above them, with a spacious garden and walkways behind. John had never explored the Diogenes Club; he wondered if this could be what it looked like viewed from behind. But he didn't think so. Sherlock paid the cabby and showed his ID to a man at the wrought-iron gate. The man nodded and let them through.

John followed Sherlock through the airy, sunlit halls, nearly trotting to keep up with his friend's purposeful stride. It _was _a nice place; definitely posh.

"Right, uh…where are we?" John asked, finally, his voice hushed. The elegance and grandeur of the surroundings instinctively made him want to whisper.

"Stettenhearst," Sherlock answered, not slackening his pace. John processed the name. He'd heard of it before…they passed a man in a wheelchair, attended by a nurse in burgundy uniform, sitting in the sunlight streaming through the windows. Suddenly, it clicked.

"Stettenhearst…do you mean the Sanctuary at Stettenhearst?"

"Yes."

"Oh." John looked around with possibly more interest than before. "Wow. When I got back from the military I looked into coming here for therapy. Supposed to be the best therapy and rehab place around, but it was a bit out of my range…now I see why," he added, appreciatively.

He wanted to ask why Sherlock knew his way around so well. Had he been here before? And why had they been so careful about what entrance they used? John refrained, however. If Sherlock felt pestered, he wouldn't get any information anyway, and John was patient. He could wait and see. But he was terribly curious.

The hall they were in opened into a lobby, where a young woman sat at a desk. She looked up with a bright smile at their approach.

"Mr. Holmes! How nice to see you this morning. Can I help you gentlemen?"

"Yes, we're here to meet with Doctor Paxton; could you tell him we've arrived?"

The secretary's smile took on a new warmth as she nodded. John glanced between them. Sherlock sometimes did get interesting responses from females, but John didn't think that's what this was. She was certainly pleased about something, though. Did _everyone _know what was going on but him?

"Yes, of course! He's been expecting you. You can go ahead up to his study; I'll let him know you're coming. You remember how to get there?"

"Yes. Thank you," Sherlock said, pleasantly.

"Uh-huh!" the woman replied, beaming.

Sherlock turned and bounded up a wide marble staircase with a sweeping balustrade. John scurried to catch up and said in a barely contained whisper, "Dr. Paxton? _Sir Anthony Paxton?_ The world-renowned Psychiatric and Mental Doctor?"

"Mm."

John was impressed. As a member of the medical community, he'd heard a lot about Sir Anthony before. Meeting him should be interesting.

He followed Sherlock to the door indicated by the young woman downstairs. Sherlock swept into the room without even knocking, and John followed more timidly. It was a nicely furnished, bright, sunny space; similar in elegance to Mycroft's haunt but of a much lighter and breezier tone.

An elderly man sat behind the mahogany desk, talking to a young black-haired woman whose back was to them.

Dr. Paxton acknowledged them with a nod and a smile.

"Mr. Holmes. And Doctor Watson, is it? Pleasure to have you here." He extended his hand, and John shook it firmly.

"Sir Anthony; the pleasure's mine!"

The young woman turned to look, and John sucked his breath in. Chi-Sung. She stood, and stepped closer to Sherlock, holding out a hand to him. Her eyes were filled with tears.

"Mr. Holmes…the Doctor has just been explaining to me what you've done. I thank you, so very much. I can't ever thank you enough."

Sherlock gave her hand a surprisingly gentle squeeze.

"What did he do?" John asked, glancing in turn at everyone in the room. Sherlock didn't reply, but stepped over to the desk, examining the papers there.

"The documents are in order?" he asked. He grabbed a pen and started flipping through the papers, glancing over each one and signing in the required places.

"Sorry, what's going on?" John asked, "What exactly am I witnessing? What did Sherlock do?"

Dr. Paxton smiled.

"Miss Sung has a younger brother whom we believe we can treat here. If things are as I see them, we should be successful in returning him to a normal level of sanity in possibly little over a year. Your friend is meeting the monetary requirements for his rehabilitation, and has also arranged for Miss Sung to be accommodated here while her brother is undergoing treatment."

Sherlock didn't appear to hear, still flipping through papers, but John stared at him.

"Sherlock-"

"Just a minute, nearly done…" Sherlock muttered, eyes flying down the page, and signing the final document. He straightened up. "There we are, Chi Sung, I believe that's settled."

"Mr. Holmes…after what I did to you…thank you…I-"

"I hope your stay here will be a pleasant one," he interrupted, briskly, "Nicer than a prison cell, surely. You won't need to worry about your brother again. Sir Anthony will personally oversee his treatment. And Dr. Manson, so called, will never come near you again. Good morning."

He turned and nodded to Sir Anthony, who shook his hand once more.

"It was good to see you, Sherlock. Thanks again for helping; it's much appreciated it seems." Sir Anthony nodded toward Chi Sung, who was looking over the papers with tears in her eyes.

"It would seem like that, wouldn't it? Good morning."

"Good morning."

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><p>John was still staring over at Sherlock. They were driving back to Baker Street, and he was still a little overawed at what had just happened.<p>

"She couldn't go to prison," Sherlock stated, suddenly, "I didn't testify against her or press charges, and since her only serious crime was against me she was left out of the court proceedings. Mycroft took care of the technicalities. If she'd been incarcerated, her brother would have had no caretaker and probably would've been mentally diseased forever. Tony assured me, though, that his condition is a relatively easy fix if the right treatment is administered-"

"Sherlock, why are you telling me this?"

Sherlock looked at him, bewildered. John shook his head.

"You don't have to justify anything, mate. You don't have to explain anything. I think it was a bloody good thing you did back there, alright?"

Sherlock smiled.

John thought, they still had a bumpy road ahead of them. Sherlock's memory still gave him trouble; he wasn't completely back to himself yet. But everything that made him Sherlock was still there. Not least, his gift for constantly surprising. And John would never cease to be amazed.

THE END

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So? What's the verdict, guys? This marks the end of our story. I am hoping to have an A-Team fiction up on Friday, but in case that's not finished in time, do I have any requests? I have another "Sherlock" story completed and waiting to be posted, and I think I have one or two "The Hobbit" ones ready, too. Any preferences?<strong>


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